Grace is reality.

Trying on wedding bands (sized for big love) at South Street Seaport, just before sunrise.
New York City, NY. December 2008

I’m back in New York City now, in 7A—our cozy little nest on the Lower East Side. I’ve returned from my Soul Journey to Spain and the UK, where I shared countless tears and smiles with Mia’s family and friends. My trip included so many beautiful moments. In Marbella, Spain, I savored caviar with John and Nina at Casa Jasmin (this was Mia’s idea!). I celebrated the eve of San Juan with Ele, toasting to Mia while a beachfront bonfire blazed on. I lunched with Debbie and the Sweeney clan at the infamous Madd House. I went down to Tarifa with Tori and Maui, where we chilled poolside with Morgan at Pachamama; then Tori and I cleansed ourselves with mystic mud on the dual shores of the Atlantic and Mediterranean. All that and more—more friends, more stories, more celebratory food and drink—filled just the first few days of my trip.

My next stop was Umbertide, Italy, for a week-long songwriting retreat with 16 other writers. Maybe I’ll talk more about that week another time, but suffice to say Mia’s spirit was there—inspiring me and loving the amazing food and the bottomless cups of espresso, of course. Joder!

Then I went to England for more connectivity. Lucinda and I rode out to Stert for a lovely evening with Joe and her family, stopping on the way to visit the three trees Luce recently planted with Tiff, Joe, and the Charlies. John and I shared our favorite stories of Mia over an elegant meal at Claridege’s. I visited Rikke and her beautiful boys in Andover, then raised a pint of the good stuff (with salt and vinegar crips) there at the Town Mills pub. Back in London, Natalie, Luce, Piers, and I rocked a Mia-approved dinner of burgers and beers at the New York-style Automat, then raised a few more glasses afterward at the swanky Donovan. Mia wanted to be celebrated, and we were doing our damnedest.

Paris was next, for a quick visit with a dear old friend of mine who got to know Mia only via email—though Mia could communicate richly in her emails, as most everyone on this blog knows. Mia and I stayed in his Parisian flat once on holiday, and she and I spoke several times about taking another trip there. We never had the chance, but we did watch Two Days in Paris a few times for fun.

Finally, I returned to Marbella for two more days with family at Nina’s house. Eric and Hilde were there, along with their daughters Anna and Laura and a few of Laura’s close friends; Tobias was there too. Mia’s first husband, Marcos, came by for lunch. It was a pleasure to meet Marcos—he’s all heart. Very late that night, the family had a burial celebration for the Spanish quarter of Mia’s ashes. (Her remains are divided between her four home territories—Denmark, Spain, England, and New York.) We buried the urn under an Arbol de Amor tree in Nina’s garden. We raised our glasses of beer—some Danish beer and some Spanish—and even poured one down for Mia to enjoy. The family sang a Swedish song with these lyrics (translated), “Who can row without an oar? Who can sail without wind? Who can part from a dear friend without a tear on your chin? I can row without an oar. I can sail without wind. But I can’t part from a dear friend without a tear on my chin.” Then they asked me to sing one of my songs. I didn’t have a guitar handy, so I spoke my song “Long Way Gone” as a lyric poem. It was one of Mia’s favorites from my repertoire, one I’d sung for her many times.

Now, at last, I’m home, but it’s not quite “home” without Mia here to awaken with in the morning. Mornings were a special time for us. Sometimes we’d get up a little before sunrise, walk along South Street Seaport, grab a bagel and takeaway coffee, then watch the sky put on its morning magic show. Then we’d come back to 7A, where Mia would make us big fruit bowls and a carafe of intense coffee. Nor is it the same here without Mia in the afternoon. I’d come home from my daily run and find her on the sofa, smiling, a cup of PG Tips close at hand, her Mac laptop atop her lap. She’d be Skyping with a faraway friend, researching something that had piqued her curiosity, or looking at cheap flights for a holiday. Evenings aren’t the same now either. She and I would watch the sunset from our apartment, with our living room and kitchen awash in peach colors. When the sun was gone, we’d curl up on the sofa to watch our latest Netflix delivery—a new movie with bold ideas, or a silly comedy, or some favorite classic—then we’d make dinner together. I’d be in charge of the hot food (gluten-free capellini with puttanesca sauce, or a lamb stew in wintertime, or Thai-style fish cakes); she’d do the cold (a fresh salad, with each veg cut just right and a tangy dressing with mustard and fresh herbs). Then maybe I’d be off to one of my late-night gigs. (It’s not uncommon in NYC for a gig to start at 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.) I’d come home very late and find Mia in bed. Even in her deepest sleep, she’d know I was home and was trying to join her without waking her. As soon as I’d settle in alongside her, Mia would wrap her arm around me—or pull mine around her—without saying a word, then drift back into whatever beautiful dream she was in the middle of. The gesture was so simple, but I’ve never felt so loved than in those moments when she’d silently welcome me home and we’d rejoin each other as one.

As I write this, I’ve been drinking Egyptian licorice mint tea. It’s from a box of Yogi Tea I bought for Mia many months ago. As with all Yogi teas, there’s an inspirational note on the teabag tab. This one says, “Life is a chance. Love is infinity. Grace is reality.” Someone at Yogi must’ve known Mia.